


Baby, We're the Lonely Ones

by Steve



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Craigslist, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Past Abuse, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: Yasha knows she can be scary and off-putting. Frankly, she takes pride in it. So with Mollymauk spending Thanksgiving with his new boyfriend, Yasha posts a Craigslist ad offering to pose as the world's worst date to anyone who wants to spice up a family dinner. She gets to be awkward on purpose, for once, and she bags a free meal and a way to one-up Molly's stories, so it's pretty much a triple win.Beauregard hasn't seen her parents in years. When she's forced into attending one last family get-together, she decides to take the opportunity to burn her bridges once and for all. Then Jester sends her this weird Craigslist ad about a seven-foot-tall ex-con who can probably deadlift Beauorcrush her between her thighs—dealer's choice—and, well, uh. She can't say she's not interested.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, of course, by that [infamous Craigslist post](http://janewithawhy.tumblr.com/post/113931372093/imagine-your-otp).
> 
> I've been writing this on-and-off to relieve stress during finals, and it ended up being a bit longer than anticipated. I decided to split it into different chapters in an attempt to make editing less daunting. Title is from the song "Lonely One" by Dresses.
> 
> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](http://halfgap.tumblr.com/).

Beau is sulking.

She knows she is, and she knows it’s super immature, and an indication of stunted communication skills, and yada yada yada. She keeps doing it. Very visibly, in the middle of the living room while Fjord finishes packing his stuff. Jester’s bright pink overnight bags have already taken over the couch, so Beau sulks cross-legged on the floor, glaring at the wall and occasionally sighing with great emphasis. Jester herself is working a late shift, leaving Fjord all alone to deal with The Grumpy Roommate.

(Beau knows that’s what the two of them call her. She’s okay with that—she and Fjord call Jester The Loud Roommate, after all. Fjord is known as The Handsome Roommate, which Beau is a little miffed about because _hey why is his nickname a compliment_ but it annoys Fjord more than any actual insult and makes Jester giggle every time they use it, so in the end everybody wins.)

Fjord gives in eventually, pausing in the process of deciding which fancy shirt to bring along. (He only has two to pick from, but she can tell he’s struggling.)

“Y’know,” he says pointedly, “if you want me or Jester or both of us to stay behind, all you have to do is ask. We can come with you, even.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one that surprises her. It’s possible Fjord’s just being polite and doesn’t really mean what he’s saying, but also—it’s Fjord and Jester. Sometimes they’re so damn nice to her, her skin gets all itchy. She almost can’t stand it. Still—

“No way,” says Beau. “This Thanksgiving is, like, Jester’s chance to reconnect with her mom or whatever. You have to go. Both of you.”

Fjord shoots her a Look, probably translating into something like, _Jester’s not the only one meeting up with estranged family members this Thanksgiving, you idiot._ Beau just rolls her eyes. Fjord doesn’t understand that the difference is, Jester actually _likes_ her mom and _wants_ to see her. Beau, on the other hand, is being more or less blackmailed into going back to her parents’ house. It’s gonna be a grim, efficient event wherein Beau will make it clear, one way or another, that she’s done with their crap once and for all. She absolutely does not need moral support for something like that _._ Talking shit is what she was _made for._ Jester, on the other hand, will make much better use of Fjord’s smooth words and courteous smile.

Fjord changes tack. “No one’s forcing you to go see them, all right?” he says. “Book a bus ticket, come with me to Jester’s. Or just stay in the apartment and get drunk like last year. The weekend’s your oyster.”

“Look,” she snaps, “you’re the one who said I should try to mend fences and shit. So, what, now you’re fucking backtracking?”

Fjord’s eyes drift over to the wastebasket overflowing with the shredded remains of the most recent batch of letters from Beau’s parents. Ever since they somehow tracked down her address a few months ago, the letters had been incessant, at least one a day, all apparently intent on harassing Beau into visiting them for the holiday. Beau finally responded only because she didn’t have the money to move apartments to avoid them, and her mother had started threatening to drive to town and find Beau in person.

The idea of either of her parents barging into _her_ home, the one she’s carved out together with Jester and Fjord, makes her teeth clench so hard her vision blacks for a moment. So maybe Fjord’s right, no one’s _forcing_ her to do anything, there isn’t a burly hireling here to physically kidnap Beau, but she still doesn’t much feel like she has a choice in how to spend this particular weekend.

Fjord tears his eyes away from the wastebasket and shrugs, going back to his packing.

“Never mind, Beau,” he says, weary.

He leaves it at that, apparently refusing to get into it with her again. Beau knows he feels _bad_ for her parents, because they just want to see their daughter again, their ungrateful asshole daughter who won’t return their forty voicemails or answer any of their hundred letters—not even the ones with her father’s cheques stashed not-so-subtly in the envelopes, tossed by Beau uncashed into the paper shredder with everything else. Fjord thinks of a lonely old couple sitting all sad in their big house without their only kid, and he feels bad.

She has to remind herself, again, not to get mad at Fjord. All he knows is she doesn’t get along with her parents, hasn’t seen them in six years. It’s not his fault she’s never really been able to explain her issues with them beyond that. It’s not his fault.

“Go with the blue shirt,” Beau says, getting up. She punches his shoulder on her way to her room. “Jester likes that colour on you.”

She tries, really hard, not to slam the bedroom door.

\--

“This is about the worst idea you’ve ever had,” says Molly. “I fucking love it.”

Yasha smirks and shoves him. Molly, the drama queen, groans and makes a big show of falling off the bed.

“I had to get creative,” she says, glancing up from her laptop, “since you’re spending the holiday with your _boyfriend_ this year.”

She draws out the word ‘boyfriend,’ all singsong and sarcastic like they’re in the fourth grade, but there’s no heat behind her words. She doesn’t resent Molly finding happiness with someone—even if that someone could use a good spa day and some new shampoo—because it’s _Molly_ and he deserves that happiness more than anyone else she knows.

“Caleb’s not my boyfriend,” he says automatically, still on the floor. His grin turns devilish. “Well, not yet.”

Yasha snorts. Molly’s bravado is all bark and no bite—she’s seen those two together, the snail’s pace of their relationship, Molly’s gentle patience and soft grins, Caleb’s wry flirting and awkward laughter. It’s the most sugary and chaste she’s ever seen Molly, and it’s _weird_ but also cute, sort of, she supposes.

No, she doesn’t resent Molly spending Thanksgiving with Caleb, but goddamn she’s going to miss him. It’s difficult to remember the last time they spent a holiday apart, which is... troubling.

Molly crawls back up onto the bed and presses a kiss to Yasha’s temple, almost like he can read her mind. She wouldn’t be surprised.

“I _am_ sorry, love,” he says, suddenly sincere. “But no need to pine after me! Caleb and Nott are already fond of you. I bet we’ll all spend the next statutory holiday as one big happy family.” He’s grinning again.

“Ass,” Yasha mutters, lips twitching. “Maybe I’ll spend the rest of the year with one of these wonderful Craigslist users. You never know.”

Molly hooks his chin on her shoulder, reading the webpage. “Hm. I really think you’re underselling yourself, dear.”

“Y’know what Gustav says,” Yasha says wryly. “Under-promise and over-deliver.”

“Terrible advice,” he remarks. “Never used it a day in my life. Neither has he, I reckon.”

Yasha shrugs. She doesn’t think the ad she posted is that bad, honestly. It’s accurate, at the very least:

_Pissed at your parents? Want your aunt to stop asking if you’re single? I can help you piss off your family & ruin Thanksgiving for free. I’ll pretend to be your date in exchange only for the free food and an interesting night. (I AM NOT OFFERING SEX.)_

_I am—_

  * _26, F, 6’7”_
  * _A convicted felon with no high school degree but a fair few piercings_
  * **_Extremely_** _bad at small talk. Willing to use this to creep out any or all of your relatives._
  * _Really fuckin strong._
  * _Scary_
  * _VERY white, colour-wise, like a vampire, or that freaky girl from your high school who never got out of her goth phase_
  * _Willing to start actual physical fights with family members, neighbors etc._



_Serious inquiries only._

Underneath the text is a photo of Yasha herself, posing at last year’s Halloween party with a giant prop sword, one of Molly’s, probably as big as Molly himself.

Yasha admires the whole ad, fighting a smile. She is actually rather proud of it. Admittedly, the Knot Sisters got drunk on mimosas and helped her write a lot of it out, and also dared her to actually make the posting, but still. She may not be the most social creature when left to her own devices, but she used to do all kinds of wild shit all over the continent, never staying in one place too long, never letting herself set down roots and get trapped or bored. _Now_ , now she’s cuddling on her bed with Molly in their shared apartment, a tad morose that she won’t be spending Thanksgiving—the stupidest of all holidays—with the one person she considers family.

No, she doesn’t resent Molly for finding happiness with Caleb, but maybe she is scared, a little bit, that recently she’s gotten a little too comfortable with this idea of home, too attached and stationary.

Molly bumps his face against her shoulder, like a cat. She flicks his nose.

“Well, Miss Under-Promise, got any decent responses yet?”

She opens up her email inbox and turns the laptop toward him.

Molly makes a face, scrolling through her messages. “Oh, now some of these are just rude. They obviously didn’t read the post.”

“Mm. I knew I shouldn’t have included the photo.” Most of the respondents think she’s looking for a hookup, and make this known in the crassest ways possible. Yasha is constantly surprised by how many men in this world lack even the most basic of self-preservation instincts. She’s pictured wielding a blade, for gods’ sake.

“The Internet lacks class,” drawls Molly. “Who could have ever guessed?”

“Wait. Molly, go back to that last email.”

“What, are you interested in”—he squints his eyes at the screen—“badassbeau420@yahoo.com? I wonder if they use the same email for their resume.”

“Don’t pretend you have a resume, Mollymauk.”

“Fair enough.” He scrolls down, reading parts of the message aloud. “Female, 23, sounds like she at least actually read your post. ‘My friend sent me this link and she probably meant it as a joke, but if you’re serious then it’d actually be rad if you could scare the shit out of my asshole parents.’” He grimaces. “She uses the word ‘rad’ unironically, Yasha!”

Yasha ignores him, tugging the laptop back toward herself so she can send a reply:

_I’m serious. Pics?_

“By gods,” Molly laughs beside her, “you sound like such a fuckboy.”

“Well, badassbeau420 doesn’t seem to mind,” she points out, as her inbox dings immediately with a response. Besides, she wants to make sure this isn’t a creep or a catfish.

They open the attachment and, _oh._ Huh. Badassbeau420 is kind of cute. The photo shows a girl with dark skin and bright eyes and quite a few piercings herself. She’s in the middle of doing a pull up on a set of monkey bars, and her T-shirt’s hiked up just enough to give a tantalizing preview of her abs. Clearly developed abs.

Molly notices her looking and groans. “Yasha! Are you serious?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please don’t tell me you find her hot. 420 is in her username. She sent us a wink emoji. And do you realize she just has this photo of herself immediately on hand—it’s probably her lock screen!”

“I mean,” says Yasha, “it’s a nice photo.”

“She probably owns a ‘SUNS OUT GUNS OUT’ shirt.”

“Probably,” she agrees.

Molly makes an indignant noise, grabbing the laptop from her and doing that thing where he zooms in really close on a photo. A grainy image of Beau’s smirk fills the screen.

He jabs a finger at it. “Do you see this, Yasha?? This face. This is a douchey face.”

“Well,” says Yasha fairly, “you did just call me a fuckboy two minutes ago. We’re a perfect match.”

Molly flings himself backward on the mattress. Drama queen.

\--

Beau scrolls through the Craigslist ad one last time before going to sleep. _Yasha_. She flips the name over in her head, letter by letter. _Yasha._ Towering tall, buff as fuck, has a criminal record, possibly owns a greatsword. Utterly unimpressed and could absolutely kill Beau with a flick of the wrist.

Beau has never seen a more perfect woman in her life.

Maybe there's hope for this weekend yet.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive to Kamordah will take the better part of a day, so Beau has to drag herself out of bed at an ungodly hour in the morning. The weather app on her phone says heavy rain is likely to hit the region later this evening, continuing into the weekend. Right after reading this, Beau realizes Fjord and Jester being gone means she’s left alone in the apartment with Jester’s weird fancy coffee machine she never quite figured out how to use.

Basically, it’s not even 7 a.m. yet and already Beau’s sure everything has gone to shit.

As she waits in line at the gas station coffee shop outside her building, though, she can’t resist pulling out her phone and re-reading her email thread with Yasha, a.k.a. surely the most perfect person in the world. The idea that this weekend will be anything but awful is absurd, but knowing she might get to have an actual goddess along for the ride does make things a little better. Just a little.

That is, assuming Yasha is real, and not a figment of Beau’s imagination, a cruel prank by Jester, or a particularly elaborate hoax by some creepy stranger.

Thirty minutes later, Beau pulls up to the address Yasha sent her, nerves jump-started into overdrive by shitty caffeine. She texts Yasha and waits, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. The interior of Fjord’s beat-up white minivan is soothingly familiar: the sound of his awful country music in the CD player and the plastic scent of Jester’s donut-shaped air fresheners almost make Beau feel like the two of them are still with her, ribbing her about her jitteriness, instead of halfway across the country on a Greyhound.

Her phone dings, and Beau looks out the window.

Usually when she’s picking up a pretty girl, she sorely wishes Fjord wasn’t possessed by the spirit of a soccer mom at the time of purchasing his vehicle. Seeing all six feet seven inches of Yasha step out from her apartment complex, though, a comically average-sized backpack slung over her shoulder, Beau finds herself appreciating the spaciousness of the van.

The suave thing to do would probably be to step out, open the passenger door for Yasha, and offer to take her (again, not very hefty) bag. That’s what Fjord and Jester would tell her to do, for sure.

Instead Beau rolls down her window, honks her horn, and calls out, “Yo! Door’s unlocked.”

Yasha sidles up to the driver’s side of the car, leaning down to come face-to-face with Beau through the open window, looking just as tall, buff, and unimpressed as she did in her Craigslist photo. Up close, Beau notices Yasha’s eyes are different shades of greyish blues, the early morning sunlight glinting off of them in distinct ways. Her left iris is dark enough that it’s almost purple, and the swirling flecks of colour only draw further attention to the unnatural paleness of her skin.

_Fuck._ She’s pretty much every ridiculous YA heroine that preteen Beau had a crush on.

“You’re badassbeau420?” she says, flat, but in a much softer voice than Beau expected, one that sounds like it should belong to someone half Yasha’s size.

“Uh.” She flushes. “Just Beau is fine.”

“Mm. I figured.”

Then she loops around, tosses her bag in the back, and slides into the passenger seat. She nods at Beau, who’s still frozen in the driver’s seat watching her, trying to look relaxed and casual but probably just coming off as a stiff, stare-y weirdo.

“You should be more careful about who you meet on the Internet,” Yasha says, startling her. “I could have been someone really dangerous.”

“Well, are you?”

“No.” Yasha buckles her seat belt. “But I could have been.”

“You had a trustworthy face,” says Beau, trying for a wink. It comes out more like a spasm.

“Hmm,” goes Yasha. Nothing more.

Beau starts the car.

She drives.

Neither of them offer anything else to break the weirdly tense silence.

_Shitshitshit._ Beau hadn’t actually planned this far ahead. What do you say to the most intimidating and attractive person you’ve ever met when you suck at small talk and are facing down an eight-hour drive to meet up with your terrible estranged parents?

Beau is momentarily saved from having to find out when Yasha points to the CD player still playing Fjord’s music.

“Is that Tim McGraw?” She’s frowning.

“Oh shit,” says Beau. “Yeah, uh, that’s my roommate’s disc. This is his car, actually. Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” says Yasha, still in that soft, ridiculously attractive voice. “I like this car. There’s not many I can comfortably fit into, to be honest.”

“Yeah, my roommate’s a big guy. Not as big as you, though.” Beau winces at the familiar gaping disconnect between her thoughts, tone, and words. “Fuck. That was a compliment. Like, you’re tall. Which is awesome. And hot.”

“Thank you. I know I’m tall.”

Awkward again.

Yasha taps on the CD player. “May I?”

“Oh. Shit, yeah, go nuts.”

She switches to radio, flicking through different frequencies before settling with the one it was on originally, Jester’s favourite pop station. Beau suddenly misses Jester, and her endless reserve of words and enthusiasm, with an aching ferocity.

Usually when they spend any length of time apart, Jester is a relentless texter, spamming Beau’s cell with blurry photos, non sequitur observations, hourly updates on how many hot strangers she’s seen, whatever. This time, though, Beau’s phone has buzzed only a few times since Jester and Fjord left for their bus, Jester’s most recent message from last night being something about how Beau should snap a selfie with the “hot Craigslist girl.” Jester is probably distracted from her usual shenanigans with the prospect of seeing her mom looming so close. Beau feels kind of guilty that she’s not there with her but, well, at least she has Fjord to lean on.

The thought eases Beau’s mind somewhat, but also leaves her feeling weirdly lonely.

As the sounds of bubblegum pop and too much quiet fill the car, she chances another sideways glance at Yasha, and is startled to find her staring intently into her lap, stiff and unmoving except for her thumb fidgeting with one of her wristbands. There’s a carefulness, a smallness to the motion that offsets the scarily impassive expression on her face.

For the first time it occurs to Beau that somebody might actually be just as wound-up and awkward as she is.

“You know,” Beau remarks, “you don’t have _that_ many piercings.”

Yasha lifts her gaze. “What?”

“Your ad,” says Beau. “It said you have a lot of piercings. But like, even I have more than you.”

“That is potentially true.” Then suddenly Yasha’s smirking, just a tiny tilt of the corner of her mouth. “The thing is, not all of mine are immediately visible.”

Beau feels, actually feels, her face get flooded with heat as she’s left to contemplate _that._ Yasha must notice, too, because then she laughs, and it’s brief and low but, Beau thinks, addictive in that she immediately wants to figure out a way to get Yasha to do it again.

Some of the bleak, early-morning discomfort lifts from the air.

“Seriously, though,” says Beau, “that Craigslist ad was a master stroke. Like, idea, execution, just A-plus.”

“Thank you.” Yasha sounds genuinely pleased. “I was very proud of it.”

“Kind of wish I’d thought of something like that. I’m probably not as intimidating as you, but I mean, I’m great at being an asshole, I think?” She’s also not a convicted felon, but well, she’s been to juvie.

“I’m sure you can be very intimidating to some,” Yasha says kindly.

“Am I intimidating to you?”

She pauses.

Beau grins, not remotely offended. “Ya see?”

“Well, I don’t feel threatened by you physically,” Yasha says. “I’m confident I can take you in a fight. But—there are other ways to be intimidating.”

“...Huh. Good to know.” With enormous effort, Beau keeps her eyes trained on the road ahead. “I wouldn’t be so quick to bet against me in a fight, though.”

Yasha’s laugh this time is incredulous, almost a snort.

“Hey! I know how to rumble,” she insists, which _actually_ coaxes a snort out of Yasha. “I’m pretty fast, y’know. And I’ve been told I just don’t know when to quit.”

“Oh, I believe it,” says Yasha, and Beau peeks sideways and _holy shit_ she’s smiling this small, slanted smile that hits Beau right in the chest. “But... speed versus strength. We’ll have to try that sometime, see who ends up on top.”

“Yeah, we’ll see how that pans out,” Beau says, super smooth, as if her brain isn’t short-circuiting from—from everything.

Her neck feels much hotter than usual, but she finds she doesn’t much care.

\--

They spend the next hundred miles toeing the line between flirting and outright provoking one another, which is Beau’s usual modus operandi (much to Fjord’s chagrin) but apparently one that slots in very well with Yasha’s unflinching, deadpan approach.

They eventually end up bonding over having crazy roommates who never shut up, but even when Yasha’s making fun of him Beau can tell she cares intensely about this Molly person. She watches Yasha’s eyes go all soft at the corners, and idly wonders if _she_ sounds like such an obvious sap when she talks about Jester or Fjord.

They’re having such a good time talking shit, she almost forgets the entire context of the trip, until—

“So what made you answer the ad?” asks Yasha. “You fighting with your parents?”

Beau makes a face. “I don’t think I remember a time we _weren’t_ fighting.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.” Beau shrugs, trying to focus on driving. “I guess we’d have to be speaking to be fighting? I haven’t actually seen them in years.” Yasha’s silence only further compels Beau to keep talking, words tumbling out of her mouth without permission. “I mean, I ran away for good when I was 17. Or, like, maybe they kicked me out. I dunno. It’s—actually kind of a mess to remember.”

“I understand,” Yasha says quietly, and the easiness of her response untwists something hard and tight inside Beau’s chest. “So why are you going back now?”

Beau shrugs again, helplessly. “Shit, man, I don’t know. Mostly ’cause they found out where I live and have been bugging me to reconnect ever since. I’m kinda scared they’ll come to me if I don’t go to them first.” Her fists clench rigid around the steering wheel. “And that’d be real fucking shitty.”

“Well, that’s absolute horse shit,” says Yasha, tone sharper than Beau’s heard it so far. “I don’t know what their beef is, but you don’t owe them anything.”

“You think?” Her fingers relax just slightly, despite herself. “I mean, that’s what I think, but it also makes me feel like kind of a dick.”

“Then be a dick.” Yasha shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with cutting and running from a shitty situation. And I’ve been through a lot of them. Some things just aren’t worth the stress.”

“Well, that’s the plan. Being a dick, I mean.” Beau laughs shortly. “Telling my parents to fuck off rarely works, but I’m kinda hoping if I show up as my awful self they’ll realize I’m a hopeless cause and... lose interest.”

It’s a pattern familiar to her growing up. Interspersed between her parents’ phases of being utter control freaks were the quieter periods of time when they just didn’t give a shit, too tired of fighting a losing battle with her unending defiance, her determination to spiral out of their control.

“Ah, so my scary deadbeat girlfriend act will be useful after all,” notes Yasha.

“Sure thing, babe,” she drawls. “And if all else fails, I’ll just tell them to fuck off anyway for the hell of it, right?”

“Atta girl,” says Yasha, and her warm, steady confidence makes Beauregard’s bravado feel a little less fake.

“So, like, what do you get out of this?” Beau ventures after a while. “You sorta seem like the kind of woman who’d have better things to do with the long weekend.”

“It’s not really about the long weekend. I mean, I’m working private security now, so my hours come with the contract.” Now it’s Yasha’s turn to shrug. “I guess I was just bored.”

“Bored,” Beau repeats, skeptical.

“Well, I guess that’s only part of the reason.” She’s frowning, holding herself all hard and frozen again, the way she was at the start of the drive. Beau figures it’s the Yasha equivalent of uneasy. “I suppose I didn’t like the idea of sitting around at home while Molly was off doing Thanksgiving with his not-boyfriend.”

She cuts herself off then, as though she’s said too much. Beau knows the feeling.

“That’s valid,” Beau says slowly. “It’s kind of an asshole move, though, for him to ditch you on Thanksgiving for some guy.”

She feels Yasha bristle next to her. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong impression,” she says coldly. “I was the one who didn’t want to barge into their holiday when things between him and Caleb are still so delicate.”

“Well, yeah,” Beau says, as always refusing to shut up even when she _knows_ she should, “but you’d think he’d know better than to take you at face value there.”

“Molly and I aren’t like that.” There’s a real note of anger in her voice now. “We don’t press into each other’s shit. I told Molly to spend the holiday with Caleb, and he knows better than to push me or pry.”

“Okay, sure. Fine.”

“And on the topic of asshole friends,” snaps Yasha, “how about your roommates? They were just gonna let you drive off to your parents all alone when you’re obviously messed up over it?”

“What the fuck?” Beau tosses her a sharp glance, only to find Yasha’s stare boring into her, pissed and unwavering. “I’m not messed up over anything. It’s just a shitty—fuck.”

“Whatever you say,” Yasha says, unimpressed.

“And anyway,” Beau continues, frustration bubbling, “it’s not Fjord and Jester. It’s me. They have their own crap to deal with, and I _told_ them I didn’t need their help.”

Yasha doesn’t respond. Neither of them say anything for a few moments, and Beau lets out a long breath, trying to re-center herself. Warily, she peers sideways at Yasha again. To her surprise, all previous strains of irritation have slipped off of her face, replaced instead with another one of those small, barely-there smiles.

“I guess we’re on the same page, then,” says Yasha quietly, meeting her gaze.

And Beau can’t help but snort a laugh at that, the tension easing from her own shoulders, because, yeah, they kind of are. They don’t want to need the people they tentatively have. They _don’t_ need them.

_Holidays are a stupid construct_ , Beau thinks.

“Fuck, yeah,” is what Beau says aloud, flashing herself a sharp not-quite-smile in the rear-view mirror. “There’s nothing wrong with handling shit alone.”

“Cheers to that,” Yasha agrees.

And she punctuates it with a quick, light clasp of Beau’s shoulder, and it’s kind of stiff and uncomfortable but it’s also the first time either of them have touched the other in nearly 200 miles. Ironically, it reminds Beau that she’s _not_ alone, not right now, and she’s actually kind of glad about it.

Maybe contacting Yasha on Craigslist wasn’t only about meeting a hot stranger from the Internet and pissing off her parents. Maybe a small part of Beau has to admit that it’s easier, sometimes, to ask a hot stranger from the Internet for help than it is to be vulnerable around her actual friends.

She looks at Yasha, at the way the tension wound tight around her shoulders loosens more and more the farther they get from the city, and she thinks that’s probably something Yasha can understand.


	3. Chapter 3

They grab lunch and fill up on gas at a rest stop roughly halfway to their destination. Yasha offers to take over driving from there, but Beau adamantly refuses.

“I got this, babe.” She grins crookedly, twirling the car keys around her fingers. “What kind of fake-girlfriend would I be otherwise, huh?”

It’s stupidly charming, enough that Yasha doesn’t press the matter. She also suspects that Beau just needs something to _do_ , something to focus her mind on as they race down the freeway closer and closer to her hometown. She watches the younger woman roll her shoulders and bounce her knees and drum her knuckles against the dashboard when they slip back into the car after lunch. It’s as though Yasha can actually _see_ the jangly energy that’s been thrumming beneath Beau’s skin the whole morning begin to rupture, to burst through to the surface now that there are no more planned stops between them and Kamordah.

Yasha won’t begrudge Beau the steering wheel if that’s what it takes to calm her, even if it only works a little bit. As for how Beau driving gives Yasha free rein to stare at her the whole ride, well—that’s just an additional perk.

She can hear Molly’s delighted, teasing voice in her head: _You thirsty-ass fuckboy!_ But Yasha knows that’s not what’s going on here, not really. It’s just—there’s something vitally enticing about how Beau inhabits her space. Even while driving she finds ways to be constantly in motion—tapping a beat against the wheel with her thumbs, dragging a hand through her hair and along the buzzed sides of her head, flexing her neck so it makes that gross little _crick-crack_ sound. It’s like she’s itching to jump out of her own skin, and Yasha’s not sure whether this restlessness is a product of Beau’s nerves or if she’s just always like this, but something about her energy draws Yasha in, the same way she knows it might aggravate someone else. Yasha has spent so much of her life learning how to hold herself still.

Then there’s how Beau knows this dorky minivan like it’s a part of her, at one point reaching out a hand to dig around the glove compartment and pull out a stick of gum without her eyes once leaving the road, her other hand loose and relaxed on the wheel. She almost elbows Yasha in the chin. It’s kind of poor driving practice. It’s cocky, and dumb.

Yasha is charmed, because Yasha is a mess.

Beau pulls off the wrapper with her teeth and tosses the gum into her mouth. She peers sideways at Yasha, which is another thing she keeps doing that goes against basic road safety, but Yasha always stares back, meeting her gaze directly.

“Want one?” says Beau. “It’s minty.”

“I’m good,” says Yasha, even though her mouth is still heavy with the unpleasant aftertaste of the burger she had for lunch. “Pickle breath is part of the ‘bad Thanksgiving date’ starter kit.”

Beau wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, you’re right, they’ll hate that.”

“Which is the point,” Yasha reminds her. Pointedly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m with it.”

Beau slides her another sly glance. What really intrigues Yasha about Beau’s brand of kinetic energy is how it serves to highlight the times when Beau is perfectly still. Whenever Beau is drawn deeper into conversation, Yasha watches the way her entire body seems to finally settle into focus, honed in on every word she’s saying, on every word _Yasha’s_ saying. Then her eyes will flicker over, the way they’re doing right now, squinting just slightly against the sun.

It’s the kind of intent, penetrating gaze that would make Yasha blush and spur her to prompt action if it came from an attractive stranger in a nightclub. Here, though, boxed into this car for hours with this not-quite-a-stranger, all Yasha can do is stare back, actively trying to appear as mysterious and unreadable as possible. She knows she’s good at that, at least.

Beau’s face flushes just a bit darker, like being caught looking at Yasha is something she’s embarrassed about. Yet she’s too shameless to tear her eyes away, instead letting their stare-down linger for a second longer than is probably wise before she finally turns her gaze back to the road, her mouth quirked into a half-smile.

Yasha’s own face feels a little hot, too.

Just from _eye contact._ Maybe the Molly voice in her head speaks a little truth.

The Molly voice in her head isn’t satisfied with only teasing her, unfortunately. More and more often in the past few months, it’s taken up the habit of vocalizing her softer impulses. Right now she can see him shaking his head and chiding her, _Don’t just stare at her, you horn-dog, you. The poor asshole’s probably exhausted!_

The real Molly, the one that lives in Snapchat notifications on her phone, just sends her another blurry photo of Caleb’s cat. It’s the fourth one that day.

Yasha heaves a sigh.

“There’s a rest stop coming up in a mile,” she says, casual. “Pull over.”

“Why?” Beau frowns. “We’ve got gas. It’s only a couple hours till Kamordah.”

“I need to take a piss,” Yasha intones.

Beau doesn’t argue after that.

As soon as they park at the rest stop, they both move to get out of the car. Just as Yasha predicted, Beau can’t pass up the chance to stretch her legs, burn off some of that excess energy in a more meaningful way than just furiously chewing a Wrigley Doublemint.

Yasha takes the opportunity to hip-check Beau out of the way and slide smoothly into the driver’s seat. (Sort of smoothly. Her knees knock against the steering wheel.)

Beau stares. “I thought you had to go take a piss.”

“I lied.” She holds out a hand, expectant. “Give me the keys, Beau.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Well, just try to move me out of this seat.” Yasha straightens her shoulders and raises a brow. Molly called her a ‘metalhead mountain of a creature’ once, back when they first met, and at the time Yasha couldn’t decide whether she was flattered or offended. Now she can appreciate the merit of such a title.

Beau narrows her eyes. “Is this, like, a stick-up? Are you mugging me?”

“If I were, you’d be knocked out ass in a bush three hundred miles ago.”

“...Fair enough.” She doesn’t move.

Yasha lets out a breath. “C’mon, Beau,” she says. “We had an early start. You’ve been behind the wheel all day. Driver fatigue. Dangerous. Yeah?”

Beau stares at her for a moment longer, before softening. “Well, shit, you coulda just said so.”

And she tosses Yasha the keys.

“...Good. Thank you.” Yasha slips the keys into her pocket and steps out again. “I, um, actually do need to pee, though.”

Beau snorts. She’s leaning against the hood of the car now, eyes gleaming.

“If I find you in the driver’s seat when I get back,” Yasha calls, “I’ll just pick you up and dump you in the back. You know, like a baby.”

Beau flips her off, but there’s a smirk tugging at her mouth.

In the washroom, her phone buzzes with more texts from Molly.

**Mollymauk (3:12 PM):** _are u alive_

**Mollymauk (3:12 PM):** _do u still think the fuckboi is hot_

**Mollymauk (3:13 PM):** _are u gonna fuck her in her childhood bedroom_

Yasha snorts.

**Yasha (3:15 PM):** _Shut up_

**Yasha (3:15 PM):** _she’s cute but I can’t tell if she’s trying to flirt with me or insult me._

**Mollymauk (3:16 PM):** _that’s not an answer to my question_

She shoves the phone back into her jacket.

When Yasha returns from the washroom, Beau is obediently buckled into the passenger seat. She’s so quiet and still, her head turned toward the window, Yasha assumes she’s asleep.

Then, as Yasha turns the key in the ignition, Beau drawls—

“I’ll take a rain check on the manhandling.”

And she’s looking at her now, a goofy grin stretched across her lips, brow quirked. Yasha makes the mistake of making eye contact, and has to bite back a smile of her own.

“You know,” Beau prompts, quite unnecessarily, “you promised to pick me up. I’m down for it.”

“Noted,” Yasha says evenly, leaving it at that.

A few miles later, Beau is out like a light. Yasha loses herself in the new stillness of the car, the sight of the sun dipping lower in the sky and the tree-filled landscape whipping by as they speed ever closer to a tiny town Beau so clearly hates. Yasha can understand the sentiment. She remembers what it was like to be boxed into an upbringing that never quite fit her. She can’t imagine going back, although sometimes she thinks about it, about what the people back home might be doing, whether they think she’s rotting in prison or dead by the side of the road.

Yasha keeps driving.

The view is nice, at least. Open sky, lots of green. Yasha rolls down the window, relishing the roaring sound of wind whistling past, like she’s created her own mobile storm. She shuts it again a moment later, though, worried about waking Beau. Instead she eyes the trees outside, a familiar yearning pull in her chest, and wonders when her last hiking trip was. Mollymauk was game to accompany her the first few times, and sleeping in a tent actually suited him remarkably well, but she knows in his heart he needs reliable access to indoor plumbing and bath bombs to truly be in his element.

Her gaze slides over to Beau snoozing in the passenger’s seat, so straight-backed she might as well be in meditation. In their relatively short time together, Yasha’s considered Beau to be expressive and transparent, especially in comparison to her own stoicism. Molly once said Yasha had a natural-born poker face; a pity since she’s dismal at cards. Looking at Beau’s face now, she thinks maybe Beau’s had her own masks to hide behind all along.

Beau is nearly always scowling, or grimacing, or frowning, eyes glaring or else narrowed in suspicion. Even her smiles are hard and twisty, always teetering on the edge of a smirk or sneer. Yasha’s caught them going soft, almost fragile, only once or twice, when she’s talking about her Jester, her Fjord, or when she’s met Yasha’s own eyes for a beat too long.

Now, though, asleep and unguarded, Beau’s not making any faces, smug or surly or sappy or otherwise. She’s just—young. At peace. Face smooth and slack, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a small, uncomplicated smile. Like she’s dreaming nice, easy dreams, when nothing about her conscious self suggests nice or easy.

Absently Yasha wonders if Beau would be into hiking. She seems like she would maybe be able to appreciate it with her.

Warning bells, from her own voice in her head this time.

She forces her thoughts to stop in their tracks. She almost broke one of her cardinal rules of survival: don’t expect anything in life, especially not from other people. No expectations, no daydreams or what-ifs, no room for disappointment. No hazy fantasies of camping under the stars with a pretty girl from the Internet.

Yasha follows a strict ‘hit it and quit it’ policy. She won’t let herself get sucked again into a mess of capital-F Feelings and vulnerability. She already knows how that story ends.

Something in Beau’s expression shifts.

“Eyes on the road, babe,” she murmurs, voice even huskier than usual. Her own eyes stay shut.

Yasha jerks her gaze back to the front. “They _are_ on the road,” she says, not quite a lie anymore.

“Suuure.” She hears Beau shuffle and stretch, and has to stop herself from looking over again. “I can always sense when someone’s checking me out, you know. It’s my superpower.”

“In that case,” says Yasha, “you’ve got drool on your chin.”

Beau cusses and flips down the car vanity mirror, swiping at her face. This time Yasha doesn’t even try to hide her grin.

Inside her head, both her Molly voice and her Yasha voice groan.

\--

Kamordah is the kind of sleepy small town with one high school, one McDonald’s, one mall. The kind where people actually care about school sports, where everyone surely knows everyone else’s business.

Beau types her parents’ address into Google Maps on her phone so Yasha will know where to drive. She keeps her eyes locked on the screen instead of letting them even glance out the windows. Yasha peers sideways at her, at the tension coiling her back and rounding her shoulders.

“Um,” says Yasha, feeling a funny obligation to distract her. Words. Words have never come easy to her. “Um, we should come up with a plan of attack, or something.”

“What?” Beau doesn’t look up from her phone.

“Like, for this fake date thing. We should figure out a backstory. A strategy. And set boundaries.”

“Oh. Are you, like, still Yasha? Should we come up with an alias?”

“No, I think that may be too confusing. Yasha is fine.” She chews her lip, tries to focus on not missing the next turn instead of letting her gaze slip back in Beau’s direction. She fails. “I’m more—you know, I’m more worried about being a convincing fake girlfriend in general, even if the point is that I’m supposed to be an awful girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” Beau huffs, “honestly my parents wouldn’t put it past me to just bring home some rando to fuck with them. Which is... I guess, exactly what I’m doing? Shit.”

“The thing is,” Yasha ventures, frowning, “I’m not great at being all... touchy-feely. It’s not really my style.” There. That sounds a little cooler than the fact that most physical contact not initiated by Yasha herself still feels jarring, alien. It took many months for Molly to make himself an exception.

“Yeah, I get that. I’m the same way.” Beau finally looks up and catches her eye. Bizarrely, a faint flush creeps across her cheeks. “I mean, I’m usually the same way. But damn, like, you can do whatever you want.” Beau’s face gets a touch redder at her own words, but she doesn’t look away, just smiles a crooked little smile, almost apologetic. “Uh. I mean—you set the pace on that front, is what I’m sayin’. I’ll follow your lead.”

“...Okay. Very good.” Did Yasha just get a free pass to touch Beau however she wants in front of Beau’s parents?

She clears her throat. Loudly.

“Um, right, so. Any specific requests beyond my being a large, awkward felon out to unsettle your folks as much as possible?”

Beau considers this for a moment. “Don’t smash their stuff or anything like that,” she says finally. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to sue you for it or some shit. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Other than that, we’ll improvise, yeah? Go wild.”

“Oddly specific... but all right.”

“When I see my parents, I always wanna break shit,” Beau explains, shrugging. “That’s maybe just a ‘me’ thing, then.”

“Got it.” Yasha smiles.

All things considered, Kamordah is a nice little town, far more affluent on the whole than the place where Yasha grew up. Beau’s neighbourhood is even nicer, situated almost on the outskirts of town, where the houses are a little larger and set a little further apart from each other. Most of them have two storeys, two-car garages, big grassy front yards.

Yasha pulls into the driveway of the address the Google Maps voice points out to her. She cuts the engine, and they are left sitting with the silence settled between them. It’s just past 5 p.m. and the sun is still visible in the sky—the forecast claimed there would be heavy rain later in the day, but for now the clouds hang back, the air outside crisp and clean.

Beau glares straight ahead, wearing one of her familiar scowls, something Yasha recognizes now as a practiced expression, a shutter.

“Place bring back memories?”

Beau nods.

“Any pleasant ones?” Yasha tries.

There’s a hesitant pause. “A few,” she admits eventually, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s not sure whether to deepen her frown or try for a smile. She jerks her head toward the foot of the driveway. “My mom taught me how to ride a bike there, when I was six.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah. It was.”

With that, Beau is out of the car, door slamming closed. Yasha wordlessly follows and they both retrieve their bags from the back. Yasha looks down at her outfit, ruffles it up a bit so maybe her jeans will look a little more scuffed, her jacket even more ragged. She also musses up her hair, as wild and thick and tangled as it already is. She knows she doesn’t exactly need extra effort to look like a mess, but, well. Call her committed.

She glances over at Beau as they walk up the driveway. She actually looks quite nice. Her shirt is pale blue and has a collar and buttons and everything. Her jeans don’t have any holes in them, and her undercut makes her look trim, clean, especially for a girl supposedly _trying_ to piss off her uptight parents.

Yasha keeps her observations to herself.

Beau rings the doorbell, and mutters something about never having had “keys to this fucking place.” There’s something stormy about her agitation, about the tightness in her neck and around her eyes, and a wild impulse overtakes Yasha as she notices it.

In the split second before the door opens, Yasha grabs Beau’s hand and holds it. Beau shoots her a wide-eyed look, but neither of them let go.

Her fingers are warm, and as callused as Yasha’s own.

The man who opens the door is tall, taller than Beau, but Yasha still towers over him. That’s the first thing she notices. The second thing she notices is a set of eyes as sharp and obnoxiously blue as the ones Yasha’s been examining all day from across the narrow space of a minivan.

The eyes are looking right at her. Looking _up_ at her, Yasha notes again with petty satisfaction.

Yasha expected a sequence of shock, confusion, perhaps disdain or nervousness, to play across his expression. Instead it turns out Beau’s father has a poker face as impenetrable as hers. All he does is lift a brow.

“And who might you be?” he says, and Yasha immediately knows where Beau got her drawl from.

“This is Yasha,” Beau interjects. Yasha gets an unexpected thrill in her gut just from hearing her say her name to somebody else. “She’s my girlfriend. Nice to see you again, too, Dad.”

He rips his gaze away from Yasha and towards his daughter as if he’s only just noticed her presence. His mouth quirks. “So you’re still in _that_ phase, I see.”

“What, my _lesbian_ phase?” Beau is instantly heated.

“I was actually talking about your sarcasm streak.”

Beau snorts. “Sure.”

“In any case, Beauregard,” he goes, and Yasha internally double-takes because Beau’s name is more ridiculous than she realized and Molly is going to have a field day, “you should have told us you were bringing a guest, at least.”

“Sort of a last minute decision,” says Beau, dismissive.

“Is that so.”

“The—my attendance tonight, not our relationship,” Yasha cuts in. “I have, in fact, been seeing your daughter for six whole months.”

“It’s true love,” Beau deadpans, holding up their linked hands.

Her father ignores this.

“For what it’s worth... I _am_ glad you decided to come tonight, Beauregard,” he says instead, and to Yasha, at least, he actually sounds sincere. “It’s—it’s really been far too long.”

He reaches out and pats Beau’s shoulder, quickly. Beau’s expression doesn’t change from one of cool indifference, but when he moves, when he touches her, her hand clenches in Yasha’s almost to the point of pain. Without thinking, she squeezes back, her thumb running gently across Beau’s knuckles.

The moment passes.

“Well,” Beau says easily, “I figured if you two were gonna kill a whole damn forest to get a response out of me, I had a moral obligation to Greenpeace or something.”

Her father narrows his eyes, but in the end all he does is sigh, backing away from the door frame.

“Come in, then,” he says. “Your poor mother is dying to see you.” His gaze shifts back up to Yasha. “...and your girlfriend, I’m sure.”

Hands still entwined, they step across the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going overseas for a few weeks without reliable access to the Internet, so please bear with me as I disappear into the abyss. 
> 
> Thank you guys for all of your lovely comments so far! Each one of them brightens my day, and they mean more to me than you could know. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Thank you all for your endless patience and support. Every single comment you guys left has meant so much more to me than I can describe.
> 
> I'm a few farts away from finally finishing my degree, so my timetable for the near future is a big mess. Let's hope I continue my bad habit of writing fic to procrastinate more pressing matters! In the meantime, [come yell with me @ halfgap on tumblr](http://halfgap.tumblr.com/).

What strikes Beau hardest is how everything is immediately familiar.

Up until those damn letters started coming in, Beau had grown incredibly proficient at Not Thinking about her parents, Kamordah, this house. She enjoyed believing she was divorced from the first seventeen, eighteen years of her life altogether. For a while now, “home” has meant a cluttered apartment with peeling walls, Fjord’s low, off-key humming in the evenings, the clamor and smell of Jester’s baking.

But her body remembers what her mind has pretended to forget. She steps into her parents’ house and feels, immediately in her gut, _this. This is home._ She recognizes everything, from the underused shoe rack by the front door, to the cramped first-floor washroom her mother insisted was to be called a “powder room,” to the stupid green vase in the narrow entrance hallway. It makes her stomach churn.

Her body is a traitor. What she _needs_ is for this place to feel alien.

Then, there’s her mother.

She might as well be an image ripped from the childhood memories Beau pretends to never revisit. Her father, too, looks much the same as ever, but there are maybe a few more flecks of grey in his hair. Her mother meanwhile seems entirely immune to the effects of aging. People used to say Beau took after her parents and she never saw it then, but it’s all she can see now: her own eyes and sharp jaw line mirrored in her father, her straight nose and thick brows on her mother’s face.

There’s no fanfare surrounding Beau’s arrival, no tearful reunions or explosive shouting matches. When her mother sees her, she says, “Welcome back,” and her arms twitch like she was about to hug her but thinks better of it. Other than that, both parents act like Beau’s only been gone for six hours, instead of six years.

Well. No. Things are different by shades. Her parents are quieter, more restrained, like they’re not quite sure what to say to her sometimes—she doesn’t remember her parents ever being unsure about anything, before. It’s like they’re actually trying, or something. Her father is sarcastic but not cruel. Her mother makes a face at Beau’s haircut but doesn’t actually say anything about it.

They both regard Yasha—in all her massive, intimidating, unkempt glory—with raised brows and twitchy frowns. After stilted introductions, all her mother says is, “I suppose we’ll need another place setting for dinner,” and nothing more on the matter. Beau is almost disappointed by their non-reaction. It feels like everyone is holding their breath, trying to ignore the elephant in the room for as long as they can. Or, well, _two_ elephants—there’s Yasha, and there’s the unspoken fact that the last time Beau was in this house, furniture was smashed, words were hurled, and a teenager left with a hastily packed duffel and no intention of ever coming back.

17-year-old Beau would probably be fucking pissed at 23-year-old Beau.

Yasha must sense her agitation. She leans down and murmurs very quietly into her ear, her breath raising goose bumps on Beau’s skin, “Don’t worry. We have all of dinner to be shocking and outrageous.”

In the armchair across from them, Beau’s father clears his throat. Her mother ducks out of the living room, abruptly voicing a need to check on the turkey.

Yasha leans back again, settling an arm over the back of the sofa, a solid, comforting warmth behind Beau’s neck. She makes eye contact with Beau’s father and doesn’t flinch away, just stares back with those mismatched eyes and that stony, unreadable expression of hers. Beau shifts uncomfortably beside her and resists the sudden, ridiculous urge to bury her face in Yasha’s shoulder.

Her father is the first to avert his gaze. He looks at Beau, instead.

“Would you or... Yasha... like a drink before dinner?”

A lump rises in her throat as she tries to mask her surprise. She feels like she’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop when she mutters, “Sure. Beer.” It’s only two syllables, but it comes out sounding too much like a question.

Yasha’s hand brushes just slightly across Beau’s shoulder, her eyes still fixed across the room. “I’ll have the same.”

Her father nods, meeting Yasha’s gaze briefly again before exiting without another word.

Beau lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

She and Yasha are left alone in the living room now, but Yasha doesn’t move her arm away, just looks at Beau with the barest hint of a question in the tilt of her head. Beau lets out another long breath, leaning unconsciously into Yasha’s warmth, and suddenly it’s hitting her that her parents _do_ look different, after these six years.

“They’re shorter,” she murmurs.

Yasha cocks a brow. “What?”

“My parents. They’re shorter than I remember them.” She looks at Yasha, broad and sure and absolutely foreign in Beau’s childhood living room. Within her memories, the figures of her parents loom, harsh and inescapable. But now—

“Maybe you’ve grown taller,” Yasha says.

“Maybe,” says Beau. She shrugs, Yasha’s hand on her shoulder moving with her. “Or maybe it’s just because you’re here. Everyone looks short next to you.”

“Maybe,” Yasha repeats quietly. A corner of her mouth darts up in a smile, and something in Beau’s gut settles in response, soft.

\--

When her father comes back with two bottles of Heineken, already cracked open for them, the first raindrops have finally started to fall, splattering the window glass. Beau and Yasha take the drinks from him in silence.

“Storm’s only gonna get worse from here,” he says with a sigh.

Beau just grunts, unwilling to stoop to talking about the fucking weather with her estranged dad.

He jerks his head at the living room window that faces the driveway. “Give me your keys. I can bring your car in.”

She raises her brows. Their house has a two-car garage, but half of it was always filled with old useless crap: broken appliances, empty boxes, kid-sized bikes she’d outgrown. She vaguely remembers her dad telling her to clean it all out as some chore or the other when she was a teenager, but it kind of became just one more thing she never got around to doing that her parents would intermittently get pissed about.

Her father senses her surprise. His lips quirk. “We held a garage sale a few years ago,” he explains. “Most of it ended up as scrap, but it was satisfying to finally clear out all of the junk.”

“Yeah,” Beau drawls, catching his eye, “I know what _that_ feels like.”

His gaze sharpens.

She sips her beer and leans a little harder into Yasha’s side.

She feels Yasha stiffen slightly when she inches closer, but then Yasha drops her arm from where it was settled across the couch and drapes it more securely around Beau’s shoulders instead, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Outside, the rain increases in tempo.

They gulp their drinks some more.

Her dad is still waiting for her car keys. _Shit._ Beau kind of hates the idea of him even touching Fjord’s van, much less driving it however briefly. Fjord’s van, with his stupid country CDs and Jester’s stupid air fresheners. The van with Beau’s basketball shorts and Jester’s pink cardigan both still crumpled in the backseat even though Fjord always gets annoyed when they treat his car like a mobile storage unit. The van where she just spent eight or so hours building _something_ too fragile and formless to name with not-quite-a-stranger-anymore Yasha. She does not want her father inside that space.

But, well. It doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t really want to leave Yasha alone in the house with her parents, either. Her skin crawls even considering it. So without thinking it through, she grabs the keys from her pocket and tosses them to her dad.

There’s an awkward pause wherein she’s probably supposed to thank him or something, for the drinks and for taking care of her car. She stays silent. Yasha doesn’t say anything either, instead choosing to take another gulp of beer before letting out a large, earth-shaking belch.

He exits the room.

Beau presses her face into Yasha’s shoulder briefly, to stifle a giggle. “Nice one,” she mutters.

Yasha looks pleased. “Thank you.”

As soon as they hear the front door open and close, Beau exhales and hops to her feet. It’s jarring how much she hates how cold her shoulders feel as soon as Yasha’s arm is no longer wrapped around them. She chugs some beer and reaches behind her to tug on Yasha’s hand. Then she remembers that neither of her parents are watching and she doesn’t really have a good reason to try holding Yasha’s hand in the first place, so she awkwardly lets her arm drop before even making contact.

“Let me show you my old room,” she blurts. “We can take our stuff up there, maybe hide from more damn small talk until dinnertime.”

Yasha nods, downing the rest of her drink in one go as she gets up. She leaves the bottle on the coffee table without using a coaster. Beau winces before reminding herself that, _oh yeah_ , she doesn’t give a shit anymore, and feels a stupid little pang of satisfaction when she leaves her own mostly empty bottle next to Yasha’s. _Take that, coffee table._

They grab their bags and head upstairs.

Beau doesn’t know what she was expecting, really, but it certainly wasn’t—this. She opens the door to her old room, and everything is _exactly_ as she left it.

Posters of half-forgotten punk bands her parents hated are still plastered across every wall. The double bed she’d had since she was six is still crammed into a corner to make space for the freestanding heavy bag still taking up the centre of the room. Torn-open envelopes, inkless pens, and crumpled old math worksheets are still scattered across the surface of her desk, from when she emptied out her drawers that final night in a mad rush to grab what little cash she had stowed away.

Yasha strides in and drops her backpack onto the floor, her gaze seeming to linger a little on that conspicuous mess on the desk, but she doesn’t comment or ask any questions. At Yasha’s movement, Beau realizes she’s kind of just been standing frozen in the doorway, so she quickly follows suit and shuts the door behind them. She tamps down the reflex to lock it, for now.

“Your room—” Yasha pauses, before settling on, “—it’s very clean.”

And, yeah. It is, for the most part. There’s no dust anywhere. The floor is vacuumed. The bed is made, and the sheets and pillows smell faintly of detergent, like they’ve been changed recently. She wonders if her mother comes in to tidy on a regular basis, or if this was all just prepared for Beau’s Thanksgiving visit. It’s hard to say which possibility makes her feel worse.

She cracks open the closet door. She hadn’t had time to take much more than the clothes on her back, the last time. She half-expects the closet to look like a hurricane hit it, a bit like the scattered mess on her desk, but all of the dumb things she wore as a teenager are hung up or folded neatly on the shelves, and they too smell like they’ve been freshly laundered.

The lump in Beau’s throat threatens to choke her. Her eyes burn.

She turns away, and finds Yasha just standing there in the middle of her childhood bedroom, watching her with something like caution in her gaze. Maybe it’s even concern, or maybe that’s just what Beau wishes it could be. They can hear the garage door rumbling open below them and even after all these years, the noise still makes Beau’s chest clench with reflexive dread, like she’s a kid again tensing up at the sound of her parents getting home.

She drops to a seat on the edge of the mattress, staring at her knees. “Why did they keep all this crap?”

Her voice comes out small and shaky, which she didn’t expect. Her neck flushes hot with embarrassment.

Yasha seems to hesitate, and then seats herself very carefully next to her, a little closer than necessary. She looks large and out of place, there on Beau’s old bed. “What do you mean?”

“All my stuff. My posters, my clothes. They could’ve trashed it or, or donated it or sold it in their stupid garage sale.” She swipes the back of her hand across her eyes impatiently. “Instead we have this, like, this freaky preserved museum exhibit of their shitty runaway teen daughter.”

“Maybe they thought you would come back,” Yasha says softly. She shrugs, looking to one of the punk posters instead of at Beau. “And then by the time it became clear you wouldn’t... Well, it can be hard to let some things go.”

Beau scoffs. She’s pretty sure her dad said something to the effect of never wanting to see her again, back when she left. But then, it’s just like him to go back on his word. Distantly, she hears the garage door rolling back shut. _Breathe,_ she reminds herself. _Find your center, or whatever._

_You’re a goddamn adult,_ says a harsher voice in her head. _Fucking act like it._

“Or maybe,” Yasha is saying with another shrug, “it’s just psychological warfare. You know, lay all of your old possessions out to fuck with your head, provoke a reaction, leave you vulnerable to attack.”

Beau can’t help it. She chokes on a half-snort, half-laugh. Yasha’s gaze flits back to her, stony expression giving way to a small, bemused smile.

“Jeez. That’s pretty damn dark,” Beau says. “Even for them.”

“Can’t rule anything out.”

“No,” she agrees, not entirely joking. She grimaces. “Is it bad that I’d way rather believe that psychological warfare stuff, instead of the possibility that they, y’know, actually missed me?”

Her voice quivers, threatens to break on the word _missed_ , but before she has time to be mortified by it, suddenly Yasha’s large, warm hand is on hers, pinkie grazing Beau’s knee. The feel of their fingers lacing together, all clumsy and gentle, is rapidly becoming familiar in a very dangerous way.

“I would say that’s perfectly reasonable,” Yasha murmurs, that odd softness returning to her voice. “This is... I mean, in all honesty, I don’t think I’d ever return to where I grew up.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Not the greatest environment to be raised in, I suspect now,” Yasha says steadily, betraying nothing. “But it was home. The only one I’ve had, really. I don’t—” She hesitates, her hand squeezing Beau’s a little tighter for one brief moment. “I suppose I’ve never really made a habit of sticking around anywhere, ever since I left.”

Beau wants to call bullshit, if only based on how heavily this roommate Molly of hers features in all of the stories Yasha’s told, how often her phone still buzzes with his texts, the look on her face when she says his name. _Sounds like a home to me,_ she wants to argue. It’s an itch of Beau’s, a bad habit—when she sees anything shrouded and sensitive, a half-truth scabbed over, she can’t help but need to _dig_. She understands why she’s made so few friends.

But here, surrounded by a room’s worth of bad, dusty memories with Yasha holding her hand through it all, she feels a desperate desire in her gut to not scare this woman away. She suspects they both know a thing or two about the lies you tell yourself to keep an okay thing going.

For maybe the first time in her life, Beau stops herself from saying something inappropriate. Instead she summons a smirk and drawls, “A woman of the world. I can get behind that.”

Okay, maybe still a bit inappropriate.

Yasha just smiles. “It’s the only way I know how to be,” she says.

“I think that’s what I wanted, when I left this place as a kid,” admits Beau. “Instead here I am, six years later, literally back where I started. Pretty fuckin’ weak, huh?”

“I don’t know.” Yasha catches her eye. “I think maybe it’s—brave or something? You’re here, trying to deal with something... inconvenient from your past. You could have just left it be, or run off. But you didn’t.”

Yasha calling her brave; her heart leaps a little. But she has to let her know she doesn’t deserve it.

“Run off,” Beau repeats ruefully. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to do when my dad first got in touch, y’know, Fjord and Jester be damned. But I did that the last time. It was getting old.”

“The last time?”

“I—” Beau laughs, a little. She hasn’t told anyone this before, not even Jester. Mostly because it makes her sound like an irrational fucking coward, she thinks. “Um, so. About two or three years after I ran away or whatever, I was finally doing kind of alright. I had a place to stay, even if it was a crappy flat with a bunch of roommates I didn’t like. I even had a job at this—at this library.”

“You worked at a library?” Yasha’s grinning.

“Yeah, yeah.” Beau elbows her lightly, smiling back despite herself. “It was just to pay the bills at first, and I was lucky to have a job at all, y’know? Barely out of my teens, no GED, shit resume. I mean”—Beau recalls some details of that Craigslist ad—“well, I’m guessing you’ve been there.”

“I think I was serving time at that age,” Yasha says quietly, serious again. “But yes. I get it.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Beau ducks her head, abruptly self-conscious about the trivial scope of her own stupid sob story. But Yasha’s thumb is tracing the vein of her wrist, and Beau continues, “Anyway, um, yeah. I hated the job at first, but eventually I sorta got almost into it? There was this woman there who was, like, a library board member or something—did you know there’re freaking boards for public libraries?—so I guess she was maybe technically my boss, but it really wasn’t her job to be hanging around there so much. And she was such a hardass, but weirdly not in a total bastard way, more in a corny inspirational movie way.” Beau laughs. “She’d kick my ass if she heard me say that.”

Yasha’s still watching her, patiently listening to her ramble. “Were the two of you—?”

“Gods, no.” Beau grins at the thought. “I mean, she was super hot and I’d so be into it, but she was way older and thought I was just some kid. But she, like, made time for me, recommended me books and stuff to read, and I actually fucking read them. She wanted to help me get my GED, didn’t judge that I didn’t wanna go to uni or anything, y’know. She made me feel like—” The lump returns to her throat. “...Yeah. Then the same bullshit as three months ago happened. My parents found out my address, sent me a letter, said they wanted me home even though I hadn’t seen or heard from them since I was 17. So I took off, moved cities, went back to being a fuck-up. Didn’t look back or stay still, until I met Jester and Fjord.” She rubs the back of her neck with her free hand. “In retrospect, a little dramatic, right? Like, stupidly drastic.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Yasha says, deadly serious.

“Yeah, okay, I totally need to know your life story now if that’s your frame of reference for ‘reasonable.’”

Yasha’s whole expression shutters, which Beau didn’t think was possible considering how unreadable it already usually is.

“...Joking,” Beau clarifies.

“I know.” Still, she can feel Yasha relax a fraction. Her expression, though, stays somber as she says, “Beau, you know we can leave, right? If you don’t want to do this dinner, we can just drive out of here right now, no questions asked.” She pauses. “At least, no questions you have to answer. I know I’m repeating myself, but... you don’t owe your parents a damn thing.”

“Fuck, I know. But it’s so weird. They’re actually being—kind of nice?” She groans. “And I hate it, ’cause they’re totally fucking with my head. I mean, they could have just shot me an email or something, if they really wanted to bury the hatchet, show me they’ve changed, but instead they send godsdamn snail mail. That’s fucking deliberate, man. It’s a message, like, _‘We know where you live.’_ ”

“That makes them sound like horror movie villains,” Yasha says, smiling faintly, but not in a way that makes it feel like she’s making fun of Beau. More in a way like maybe Yasha understands.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “horror movie. That’s pretty accurate, actually.”

Yasha grows serious again. “We can leave,” she repeats, gripping Beau’s hand tighter. “Right now.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Beau, softer this time. Her heartbeat already feels steadied. “But _fuck_. I wanna mess with their heads back. And it’s pouring outside now, and we drove eight hours here, so dammit if we don’t at least get some good fucking food.” She hesitates. “That is, if you want to stay. I get it if you wanna bail, you know. You probably didn’t sign up for this brand of drama when you posted that Craigslist ad.”

“I’m staying,” Yasha says firmly. “I love drama.”

“Oh, really?” She grins. “That’s why you’re sticking around, then? For the drama?”

“Of—of course.” Yasha’s voice gets a little too loud, like it did when she was lying her ass off to Beau’s dad. For someone with such an excellent poker face, she thinks, Yasha can be a startlingly bad liar. “What? Stop looking at me like that. I’m a drama ho.”

“A _drama ho_??”

“...Mollymauk calls himself that. And, um, you know, it applies to me, too.”

“I believe it.”

Beau keeps grinning at her like an idiot for a few more beats, and eventually Yasha’s mouth quirks into a tiny, exasperated smile as well. The moment lingers, hangs suspended between them a little too long, and Beau’s gaze flickers down to where their fingers are still woven together on Beau’s knee.

“So, uh,” she says, throat suddenly dry. Her thumb draws a timid line across Yasha’s index finger. “Is this something we do now?”

She’s still looking down at their linked hands so she can’t see Yasha’s face, but she feels like she can maybe, maybe hear Yasha stop breathing, for just one second.

“To stay in character, yes,” Yasha says very quietly. “It’s—it’s my understanding that couples hold hands.”

“To stay in character,” Beau agrees, hoarse, never mind that her parents are nowhere in sight. “Yeah. That’s smart.”

“That’s me,” murmurs Yasha, and Beau finally lifts her gaze to discover that Yasha’s eyes are already waiting, already looking at her face. “A smart planner, and a drama ho.”

Beau holds her breath for one second, two, three—

A knock on the door.

They both jump practically a foot in the air. Yasha pulls her hand away and scoots back on the bed an inch, like they’re two teenagers caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

“Beauregard?” It’s her mom’s voice. That’s another new and weird thing. Neither of her parents _ever_ knocked, or stayed patiently outside her room, back when Beau still lived here. “Are you finished with your luggage? Dinner is ready in ten minutes.”

“Yeah,” she calls, voice cracking a little. “Okay. Um, thanks.”

A tangible pause. Then, “You’re welcome,” and the sound of retreating footsteps.

Beau drags a hand through her hair, making it stick up every which way. “Ugh. See?” she hisses at Yasha, who’s now gotten to her feet. “What was that?? She _knocked_. And I was civil! What the fuck?”

“Do you still want to stay for dinner?” Yasha says, looking at her intently. “Do you still want to piss your parents off, burn some bridges? Separate questions.”

“Fuck.” She wants—she doesn’t know how to articulate what she wants. She settles for, “Yes, yes, and yes. But, gods, I really thought they’d react more, you know? To you, I mean. But instead they’re pretty much ignoring you.” She grimaces. “D’you think they know we’re faking it?”

“I don’t know,” says Yasha. She reaches down and, with a slow, gentle hand, smoothes out the section of Beau’s hair that Beau had mussed up.

“Uh, “ Beau says eloquently.

Yasha’s gaze wanders again to the poster-covered walls, and she mutters, out of nowhere, her fingers still warm resting on Beau’s scalp, “Maybe they’re just secretly fans of the Sex Pistols, after all.”

“Uh,” Beau says eloquently.

Yasha finally lowers her hand then, but instead of pulling it away, she offers it to Beau, palm up. “If you want them to react,” she says, looking her in the eyes, “then, let’s give them a hell of a fucking show to react to. Alright?”

Something sprouts, begins to take shape inside Beau’s rib cage, like the ghost of Yasha’s fingers half-tangled in her hair. Sharp, still fragile, but not so formless anymore. _Oh_ , she thinks. _Oh, crap._

She reaches out, and takes Yasha’s hand.

Her parents aren’t the only ones in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: so yeah we're moving into some more emotional heft this chapter  
> me: what if yasha BURPS right in beau's dad's FACE


End file.
